


Curtain Call

by thatpeculiarone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, References to Addiction, Steve!Cas, Suicidal Dean, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 15:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14167800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatpeculiarone/pseuds/thatpeculiarone
Summary: Dean always had trouble describing things. However, if he were to describe his life, he would describe it as a performance.Through the mechanical nature of his routine, to the smiles he forces everyday, his life is one big show.And with any good show, there is always finale, a grandeur to finish it all.Even the best performances, have to end at some point.





	Curtain Call

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNINGS for Suicidal Thoughts, Depression and Self Harm (along with minor mentions of addiction). If these may be triggering for you, please don't read**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This story focuses on suicide. As someone who has been affected by suicide, I urge anyone considering it to please seek help from family, friends or one of the hotlines/suicide prevention websites. Some of these are listed below:
> 
>  **Australia:** 13 11 14
> 
>  **USA:** 1 800 273 8255
> 
>  **Canada:** https://suicideprevention.ca/need-help/
> 
>  **United Kingdom:** http://www.supportline.org.uk/problems/suicide.php
> 
>  
> 
> This fic was also inspired by the song 1 800 273 8255 by Logic. [Link here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kb24RrHIbFk)

 

Dean had always found it challenging to describe things. He wasn’t a poetic person, nor did he like to go into detail. He usually used one word to describe everything. He didn’t feel the need to beat around the bush or paint pictures in people’s heads. He liked simplicity, it’s what kept him going.

 

If he were to describe his life, he would describe it as a performance. 

 

Dean liked routine, he liked how simple it was. He had his own morning routine, the one he performed day in and day out. His brother and sister in law were his audience, both of them applauding him in their own subtle way. He knew they would clap if they could, cheer their praises loud and clearly: “Congratulations Dean! You got out of bed this morning!”. Sometimes it was hard living with people that knew of your struggles, who only moved to the town, were only living there because of you. His brother was a university professor and his sister in law a chef. There were far many more opportunities back in California for both of their careers.

 

Dean’s morning routine was one of the better performances of the show he called life. His audience would watch him like a hawk, their eyes trained on his every movement. So he would make sure he was perfect, showing no sign of a mistake. He would shower every morning and put on his uniform. He would greet his family with a smile and give his sister in law Eileen a kiss in gratitude for her cooking up both breakfast and a lunch for him to bring to work. He would eat his breakfast without a complaint, making sure to eat the whole plate. He would grin and make jokes with his brother Sam, who would immediately relax upon the sight. He would pack his lunch and grab his work bag, waving a goodbye to his family as he exited the front door, getting into the car his father had left him. It was only then that the act would be over. The smile would fall from his face, the food in his stomach would churn uncomfortably and he would sit in silence as he drove away. 

 

On good days, which were a rare appearance at that point, he would put one of his dad’s tapes on in the car. His dad had passed on his taste of music to his eldest son, the both of them enjoying the likes of Led Zeppelin and Metallica. He remembered the many drives they would take as a family. His father would sing when he was in a good mood, belting out song after song. He often encouraged Dean too as well and the both of them would harmonize whilst Sammy laughed from the backseat. Those are the memories he tried to remember on the bad days. Those were the memories that sometimes kept him going. 

 

Having lived in Lawrence his whole life, most people knew or were familiar with Dean. For the most part though, they were familiar with the ’67 Chevy Impala his father used to drive, before passing it along to Dean. You could hear the low grumble of the engine from blocks away, slowly getting louder and louder as it neared. The car was a beauty too, a sleek classic which stood out amongst the rest. Foreigners and people passing through the city would always approach him and compliment him on the car. Anyone who could see would be able to note the beautiful subtleties the car had to offer - even fifty years after its creation. It’s what gave Dean a good reputation at his job.

 

Dean’s workplace happened to be at the Lawrence Auto Shop. He didn’t need to put a performance on at the auto shop. Dean loved taking apart and rebuilding cars, loved fixing the engine and doing the oil changes. He enjoyed it, and damn was he good at it. Working put him in the zone, let him travel to a place where all he needed to do was focus on work. He’d talk to Benny, or listen to the radio, or just lay in silence underneath a car. He never had to worry about the dark thoughts, they were kept at bay when he was kept busy.

 

Dean’s lunch break occurred at exactly 12pm. Dean’s coworker, Benny had learnt a long time ago that if Dean wasn’t reminded five minutes prior, he would skip lunch altogether. When reminded, Dean would use that time to finish what he was doing, wash up, grab his lunch and head over to the staff room behind the gas station. The staff room was a common facility among the workers of both services. For a while, Dean would eat alone there, which meant he would sit in solitude for an hour and try to keep the dark thoughts away. As much as he hated other people around, sometimes they were useful to help keep his negativity away. 

 

It was only as of recent, that he started sharing his lunches with another worker, one of the store clerks at the gas station. 

 

As Dean entered the building, he didn’t need to force a smile on his face. He spotted his friend immediately, eating his usual rye crackers and cheese at the table. As soon as Dean walked in, he lifted his head up and his piercing blue eyes met Dean’s own green ones. 

 

The man smiled. “Hello, Dean.”

 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean replied, sending the other man a small smile.

 

Dean spotted the name tag, where CASTIEL was printed neatly. When Dean had first met him, that name tag had STEVE written on it instead — so it had confused Castiel when Dean had greeted him as such, instead of his own name. It had been awkward at the time, but funny, and it had created a good icebreaker for the two of them. Now, Dean would call Cas (a nickname given to Castiel by Dean) his friend, one of his only friends. They never hung out outside of work hours and rarely saw each other in passing on the street, but their lunches provided great relief to Dean.

 

He sat down and had a few bites of his sandwich, forcing himself to look like he was hungry. He was never really hungry, hadn’t been for a while. He used to be able to eat anything thrown at him, his favourites being burgers and pie. He used to cook and bake a lot too, especially when he made the trips to California. He would cook up a storm when he was on the west coast, either helping Eileen or getting her to help him. Nowadays, he barely wanted to cook toast, let alone a braised Moroccan chicken. But unlike with his family, he didn’t need to hide around Cas. His family knew the before him, whereas Cas only knew the him now. 

 

That’s what made Cas easy to talk to. Dean only needed to say what he wanted to say, rather than get things pried out of him. He wasn’t getting pushed and prodded, getting asked about why he wasn’t the person he used to be. He didn’t need to force an act and pretend he was fine, just to let the interrogations ease. Cas didn’t interrogate, he listened. He didn’t pry and he didn’t ask too many demanding questions. Cas knew Dean was a private guy, because he too himself, was a private guy. Dean hardly knew anything about Cas’ family or where he was from or anything about his background. That didn’t matter though because he knew what counted when it came to Cas. Such as the fact he liked to paint. Or that his favourite song was Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls (Dean had responded to that with _really?_ To which Cas had given his affirmative). Cas also liked bees, and honey — he had once talked to Dean for nearly their whole lunch break about the bee lifestyle, how they produced honey, how honey was good for you. As much as the topic of conversation bored Dean to tears, he still found himself listening intently the whole hour.

 

Dean told Cas about his love of cars, especially his own car (his baby). He told Cas about Sam’s love for mythology and literature and Eileen’s love for cooking. He talked about music and movies, all of which definitely did not line with Cas’ interests. He even found himself talking about pie once, after Castiel had explained he had tried making one for his friend, but couldn’t get the crust quite right. Dean had told Cas, before he even thought about it, that the secret ingredient was cinnamon. Castiel had then asked whether Dean baked pies, to which he responded with a hesitant no. Fortunately, Cas didn’t pry any further.

 

Things were easy with Cas. 

 

Which was why he was going to be sad to leave him.

 

~*~

 

All good performances come to an end, it’s just as simple as that. There’s a finale, a grand finale full of several routines, a magnificent musical score, the whole shebang. There would be this grandeur and then suddenly, it would be all over. The lights would go off, the curtains would close and the audience would sing their praise. It would be done.

 

Dean finished up work at 7pm, saying his goodbyes to Benny and trying not to let it affect him when the other man had left with a ‘see you tomorrow, brother’. He had sent a text to both Sam and Eileen, to say that he was going to be out for the night and not to wait up for him. It was then that he turned his phone off, placing it on his favourite workstation before grabbing his keys and closing up for the night.

 

He drove through the city, watching as the evening slowly turned to night. People were still out and about, having dinner with their families or friends. He passed some familiar places, places he used to love visiting in the before. There was Missouri’s diner and Aaron’s bar. There was the yoga place Lisa used to work at and the ice cream shop that Dean used to always take Sammy to. There was his elementary school and high school, the community college he went to for all of six months. The place was filled with memories, memories that Dean didn’t like to linger on for too long. However, tonight was different. He found himself playing every memory he could think about and ignoring the tears that stung in his eyes. If things could be different, he probably would go to that ice cream place one last time with Sam, or have one last drink with Benny and Aaron. However, he couldn’t. Instead he had to face the music, he had to finish the performance once and for all. 

 

By the time he left the main streets of Lawrence, stars had lit up the sky. Dean began to wonder about what happens after your life ends, what becomes of you? His dad would have said nothing, that it’s… just nothing. His mother would have disagreed - she had always believed in angels. She used to always tell Dean and Sam that they had angels watching over them. Dean liked to believe growing up that she was an angel, watching over them as they explored life without her. 

 

On the outskirts of the city was the roadhouse, owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer-Harvelle. They were family to Sam and Dean, having practically raised the both of them. Dean also happened to work at the roadhouse every other summer once he turned eighteen. 

 

Dean debated stopping in, seeing his surrogate parents one last time. But yet, he kept driving.

 

It didn’t take him long to end up at his destination. It was only a few miles down the road from the roadhouse, a small abandoned building which stuck out like a sore thumb. Dean pulled up on the curb, getting out and locking his car. He walked over and, standing right below the building, looked up at it with weary eyes. Dean had never seen this building when it was in its glory, but he had seen many pictures of it. It used to be one of the best places Lawrence had to offer, having been built in 1940 by a local architect. It was always described for its elegance, it’s beauty. The building had apparently always looked too nice for Lawrence.

 

Sometimes the bad thoughts told Dean that maybe the fire wasn’t an accident at all.

 

 

~*~

 

**LAWRENCE THEATRE FIRE CLAIMS A LIFE**

On November 2nd, 1983 — the Lawrence theatre lit up in flames, during the opening night of the ballet troupe’s rendition of Swan Lake. The theatre was full of many audience members waiting to see the performance. The show had only begun when people reported smelling smoke. It was then, they noticed a fire had started backstage, in the dressing rooms. The audience and performers were quick to evacuate and fire and rescue only took minutes to get to the building. However, they weren’t quick enough to arrive as by the time emergency services arrived, the fire had already taken a life.

John Winchester (29) was last to evacuate. Mr. Winchester had attended the show to watch his wife perform. Once the fire started, Mr. Winchester had quickly made his way backstage in an attempt to help get his wife out safely. Devastatingly, his wife was trapped in the room where the fire had begun and despite his attempts to get her out, Mr. Winchester ended up injuring his arm and his wife did not make it. Mary Winchester (29), was a ballet dancer for Lawrence’s ballet troupe. Having completed a Bachelor of Fine Arts, specialising in Dance, at Juilliard — she dedicated her whole life to dance. After taking a few years off to raise her sons, Dean (4) and Sam (6 mths), the Swan Lake performance was her debut night returning to the stage. The director of the night, Thomas Azazel, described Mary as ‘a kind hearted person. She will be missed by all’.

More updates on the damage to the theatre, along with the cause of the fire, will be coming soon.

We are keeping the Winchester family in our thoughts during this tragic time. 

 

 

~*~

 

John Winchester had always tried to be a good man, but grief and alcohol seemed to bring out the worst in him.

 

His trips of ‘self recovery’ started pretty early on after the death of his wife. Dean and Sam were dropped off quite frequently at Bobby and Ellen’s. Dean didn’t understand what was going on at that point, why his father kept leaving, but he knew from a young age that he missed his mom. He missed the familiar smell of her floral perfume, and the warmth of her hugs when she would ruck Dean into bed at night. Even baby Sam missed her as well, even if he didn’t recognise in his six month old brain that it was his mother he missed. For a while, Dean slept on the floor next to his baby brother’s cot, as he had to sing him a lullaby almost every night. Sam missed his mother’s renditions of _Hey, Jude_ \- Dean missed them as well.

 

When John Winchester came back from his trips, he would shower his sons in affection. It was those times that Dean was happy, spending those small moments with his father, when his father wanted nothing but to be with his sons. However, they never lasted long as soon his dad would be back on the road, and the brothers would be shipped off again.

 

Dean never experienced what it was like to be a kid. He grew up too damn fast for that. He spent the majority of his childhood and teenage years looking after Sam. Sam got to know what it was like to play with toys, and build cubby houses and play tag with his friends. Sammy Winchester was never not loved and always had plenty of friends at school. Dean was the loner who hid in trees and behind the bleachers, or he was the older brother of Sam who beat up any kids that targeted his little brother. 

 

Dean supposed his depression had always been there, but he had always been too absorbed in other people to notice it.

 

Everything slowly begun to get shittier after Sam left for Stanford, leaving the house practically empty apart from when John actually came home. Without Sam there, Dean and John rarely got along. John did love his sons, there was no doubt about that, but it was never enough to cure the grief that controlled him.

 

John continued to leave frequently, especially now that Sam was no longer in Lawrence. Dean made a life for himself, he went to technical college, became a mechanic, got a job. He became a person he was proud of, and for a while things were good. 

 

That was until he found out his dad had another family. His father had a new wife, Kate and another son, Adam. 

 

Dean discovered that all his trips were to see them. To be with them.

 

He remembered feeling so overwhelmed with a tornado of emotions inside of him ready to explode. He was devastated and confused, but mostly angry. 

 

He had exploded at his dad, letting out every insult he had been holding in for the past thirty years. He told his father that he was _dead_ to him.

 

Four weeks later, those words came true.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Depression was finicky. One small thing could set the world crumbling down around you. For Dean, his father’s death was like a trigger to a bomb.

 

Nothing had been the same since, and Dean hadn’t been the person he once was. He used to be able to shake these things off, used to be able to move on and focus on the bigger picture. But sometimes everything just weighs you down to the point where you are just sinking, drowning in a pit of self hated and there is no way for you to swim away, to breathe fresh air.

 

He couldn’t help but think about this as he sat on what once was the back exit of the Lawrence Theatre. He stared down at the gun in his hands. the gun that once belonged to his father. 

 

_ “It’s a Colt M1911A1, Dean. .45 caliber, standard with 7-round magazines. This thing is a beauty, Dean.” _

 

Maybe it was no coincidence that John Winchester left Dean this gun, maybe it was all because of fate that this day would happen. John Winchester died alone, on the floor of his living room, because his son had left him and refused to come home.

 

Maybe this was God talking to him, telling him this was his punishment for letting his father die, to pull the trigger on himself with his father’s own weaponry. 

 

The bad thoughts were taking over his brain, taunting him. They were rejoicing, as Dean was finally giving into them. _No more pain and suffering_   _Dean,_ the thoughts whispered. _Do this — and it will all be over._

 

His cheeks were wet, his eyes were misty and his body shook like a leaf. However, slowly he found himself lifting the revolver, holding it against his temple just like in the movies. He was panting, his lungs barely getting enough air as he began to panic. Was he going to do this? Was he really going to do this? 

 

The bad thoughts were loud, so loud he could barely hear the rational side of his brain. _The show will finally be over Dean, it will be all over. All over, all over, all over, all over._

 

He blinked and with a deep breath, prepared to pull the trigger.

 

Until he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps.

 

 

~*~

 

Castiel knew a broken man when he saw one.

 

Pain and suffering had become all but familiar in Castiel’s life. With a overly religious and conservative father, who believed the bible was an instruction manual on how to live. Punishment, _physical_ punishment was not something that Castiel was unfamiliar with, and he spent many of his childhood years littered in bruises. His mother was a reserved woman, cracked to pieces by the man she married. She was nothing but a robot, following her husband’s every command. Nothing but the woman his father wanted her to be. 

 

He had discovered he was attracted to men in college. Of course, he had attempted to deny it for a long time, considering he had learnt that being homosexual would resort to you burning in the pits of hell for eternity. So he hadn’t expected them to be accepting when he fell in love with a man. But he also didn't expect to be 25 and disowned by his parents.

 

Castiel had been broken for a long time, which was how he knew that Dean was a broken man himself. It was small little things he noticed about the other man over time, such as the heavy bags beneath this eyes or the way he would only take a few small bites of his appetising food. Albeit curious, Castiel never wanted to pry into Dean’s life, but of course, the townspeople of Lawrence were quite the gossipers.

 

He had learnt about Dean’s parents deaths from roadhouse bartender Ellen. About the fire, about the heart attack. He could tell from her sullen expression, and the tone to her voice that she was worried about Dean. Castiel could understand why, Dean was a shell of a man, as much as he pretended not to be. He was cracking from the inside outwards, and it wasn’t long before he would collapse to pieces. Castiel had been there, he had seen that happen from his own perspective. He knew what it was like to be hanging on by only a thread.

 

So Castiel had followed Dean that night. In fact, he had followed him every night that week. Castiel hated that he had become stalker of the year, but he was concerned, especially since Dean seemed to be looking more like a ghost nowadays then human. Most of the time, Dean ended up back at his own house, not far from the gas station. However, that night, he went in an opposite direction and that’s when Castiel knew something was wrong.

 

Despite having the suspicion, nothing could of prepared him to see a sobbing Dean holding a gun to his head. Dean was looking at him, his eyes wide and his mouth agape as Castiel slowly approached. He tried to mask his expression, tried not to seem like he was panicking on the inside. He felt sick, almost as if someone had ripped his stomach out. In front of him was a man he could call his friend, a man loved by many people, a man on the edge of life.

 

“Cas?” Dean croaked, confusion laced in his tone. He made no move to put the down the gun however, the barrel still poised on his head.

 

“Dean” Castiel murmured, attempting to make no sudden moves “I’m… I’m here. Can you… can you put down the gun for me?”.

 

Dean’s eyes shifted to the gun he was holding, before pointing his gaze back at Cas.

 

“I… I don’t think I can Cas” Dean sobbed “I… I can’t.”

 

“You can Dean. You don’t have to do this, okay? This is never the way, hear me when I say that.”

 

A flash of anger appeared in Dean’s eyes “People always say that, but they never understand. I don’t want to die… but I don’t have any other choice? I can’t keep up this performance Cas, I always feel like I’m someone else, that I’m living someone else’s life. It’s not a matter of ‘I don’t have to do this’. I know I don’t, I’m not an idiot. But I’m saying I have to because I can’t live like this anymore. This is no way to live Cas… this is no way.”

 

Castiel’s heart was thumping in his chest, his lungs were barely moving, he felt like he was going to be sick. Though instead of backing off, he bent down so he was more to Dean’s level and gently lifted up his sleeves. 

 

He never wore short sleeves, not even on the hottest of days. Dean knew this, because he had pointed it out to Castiel at least once. Castiel felt more comfortable in long sleeves, because it covered the several scars that covered both his wrists. It covered the several small holes that were littered up and down his arms, from the many times he stabbed himself with needles full of poison. His arms were a canvas of his pain and suffering, which he never liked to see.

 

He saw Dean’s eyes water as stared at the bare but mutilated arm. Dean was silent and unmoving, so Cas took the opportunity to talk… or rather plead.

 

“My experiences have been different than yours, Dean,” Castiel said. “But I do know what it’s like to be in your place. I attempted to leave this world once, _hell_ , I almost succeeded. The world, it can be such a bad place, that we begin to wonder, what’s the point of staying in it? It took me a long time to realise that, yes, this world is shit, but everyone can make a difference either small or big. It’s called the butterfly effect Dean, one small thing can affect so many things larger than it. And I’m not saying that to guilt you. I’m not trying to say that if you die here tonight, your death is going to hurt so many people. Because although it _will_ , Dean, I am talking more in a sense about how you living, will affect so many more people. You have an important role in this world Dean, and you have already made this world a better place for others. You have made this place so much better for me, in the short time that I have known you Dean. I don’t know how or why, but you have.”

 

Dean was now staring at Castiel, still frozen in his place, hesitance still in his eyes.

 

“Dean… I know you can’t see a world without darkness. I know that it’s hard to escape the bad thoughts but… I am telling you, that there is something out there worth living for. You have Sam and Eileen, Ellen and Bobby, all of these many people in this town that know you and whose lives you have impacted. You have me Dean and if you walk away with me today, I can promise you that I am not going to leave your side, not unless you want me to. I will be there for you Dean, we all will. Just please… please give me the gun.”

 

Castiel outstretched his arm, his palm open and facing upwards. There were no words to describe what he was feeling, it was almost as if time stood still and Castiel was stuck in a place of overwhelming fear. Castiel could see the internal struggle that Dean was going through, the way his eyes flitted rapidly between the outstretched hand and the gun he was holding. His eyebrows were furrowed slightly and his jaw was clenched. Castiel couldn’t pinpoint an exact emotion on Dean’s face - he looked frustrated and tired. Scared and confused. He didn’t know what Dean was thinking and what decision he was going to make. Castiel could hear the thump of his own heart and feel the bile rising to this throat as he watched Dean… as he watched the man before him debate whether he would live or die. 

 

It took a few minutes, which felt like eternity to Castiel, but slowly and gradually, Dean lowered the gun from his temple and placed it into Castiel’s awaiting hand. 

 

As soon as he didn’t have a grip on the gun, Dean curled into a ball and began to weep, heart wrenching cries that tore at every remaining piece of Castiel’s heart. Castiel was quick to remove the bullets from the gun and throw the gun a couple of feet away so that it could not be touched again. He also used that small period of time to empty his stomach contents onto the asphalt beside him, the past events being too traumatising for his body to handle gracefully.

 

He wiped his mouth and looked over at Dean who was still huddled in on himself. Castiel crawled over to him and gently and steadily, touched the man’s shoulder. Dean looked up, his whole face red and his lips quivering. He was quick to bury himself into Castiel’s chest, holding onto him tight. It was then that Castiel let himself cry, burying his head into Dean’s shoulder to muffle his sobs. The two of them held each other firmly, neither of them wanting to let go, letting the minutes and hours pass around them.

 

After a period of silence, Dean spoke into the night.

 

“Please don’t leave me Cas.”

 

To which Castiel responded:

 

“I’m going to be here as long as you need me Dean. I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd first like to thank Jojo and Muse, the mods of this server, for the wonderful job they do.
> 
> I'd also like to thank my beautiful betas Emma ([saltnhalo](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/)), Cara ([sternchencas](http://sternchencas.tumblr.com/)) and [firefly124](http://firefly124.tumblr.com/) for their help. Wouldn't have been able to get this posted without you folks x
> 
> Thank you to all for reading this. This was my first SPN fic so I hope you enjoyed.


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